


Cliff's Edge

by heatherputsonairs



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Character Study, Cole's Personal Quest, Gen, Mage Trevelyan - Freeform, Pro-Mage, Solas-critical, in that Trevelyan is from Kirkwall, small canon divergence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-16
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-03-19 15:18:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13707138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heatherputsonairs/pseuds/heatherputsonairs
Summary: It’s strange, August thinks, how people are so ambivalent about certain things.





	Cliff's Edge

It’s strange, August thinks, how people are so ambivalent about certain things.

He listens to Varric and Solas bicker for what seems like hours, listening and nodding and shaking his head when prompted, even though the entire debate is irrelevant to him. He can see Cole pacing a few feet away, clearly wanting to go after that Templar, but desperately afraid of doing anything without intervention from his friends. It’s a quality about Cole that August had discerned even before Adamant; he would constantly look to others for validation, ask if he did the right thing like he knew the answer but needed someone else to say it too.

August wonders if it’s the Compassion spirit that seeks this connection, the reassurance that it has done good in a world where the line separating what is good and bad is as translucent and unknowable as the Veil itself.

It doesn’t really matter now, anyway.

August sides with Varric once it appears that he and Solas have exhausted all methods of persuading him. He could have agreed with Solas, it might have endeared him more to the taciturn and utterly insufferable elf, but he feels childishly smug when he sees Solas look down his nose at him in that condescending but powerless way of his. Irritated that August has not conceded to his superiority.

It’s harder than he anticipated watching Cole drop Varric’s crossbow in a shuddering heave that threatens to collapse his entire body into a heap on the ground. He makes a miserable noise, for all that it is uniquely human, and lets Varric lead him away from the cliff’s edge with a gentle hand on the small of his back.

The entire scene is so overwhelming and potentially metamorphic that neither Solas nor Cole notice that August isn’t following them back to their camp outside Redcliffe. Varric raises an eyebrow at him, his expression so frighteningly uninterpretable, and looks like he’s about to do something, but ultimately turns his back and leaves August alone.

The Templar is still cowering and weeping quietly by the cliff. It overlooks a small ravine filled with brambles and tall growing rashvine. The small area before the drop is overgrown with bushes and trees, probably left untended to discourage people from coming too close. August wonders how many people lucklessly fell to their deaths before others stopped following.

The Templar doesn’t notice him immediately. August waits, standing with the wind faintly ruffling his hair and carrying the soft sounds of the village over to him like pollen in a breeze. It’s almost comforting, now, to hear the proof of life in this little community.

When the Templar does see him, he doesn’t startle very badly. Instead, he looks even more sullen, hunching his shoulders and defiantly glaring at August like he’s the one who has been wronged.

“I already told your friend,” he sniffs indignantly. “I don’t remember what happened.”

Fundamentally untrue; August heard the man frantically apologizing for Cole’s death, claiming that he was a young knight at the time and was only following orders. August honestly believes this part, but as this Templar is the only one currently within August’s reach, he will have to do for now.

“If you have anything to say, now is the time,” says August. He contemplated not even allowing the Templar to speak. It’s tempting, to skip past all the theatrics he knows will follow. The Templar will either beg pathetically for his life, tell some sympathetic story about his lyrium addiction – which is serious, if his wan, sunken face is any indication – or he’ll struggle fiercely, perhaps even try to escape. However, August knows that, even with the additional lyrium, this man is physically weak and will not be able to use any Templar abilities on him. It wouldn’t matter if he could; August doesn’t plan to use magic at all.

In the end, he decides to indulge in his selfish desire for a more intimate revenge. Hearing the Templar’s excuses, aggressive or not, will make it sweeter.

“I don’t have anything to say!” The Templar retorts, oblivious. His reddish beard is scattered with flecks of gray, but August can’t guess his age. He was likely the same age as Cole, though that comparison makes it even more difficult for August to conceptualize him as a person. Cole can simultaneously be a child and a man wiser than any immortal.

“Suit yourself.” August walks with purpose towards the Templar, prone and helpless, and that’s the moment where he realizes.

He scrambles gracelessly to his feet, his legs trembling, with withdrawal or anxiety, August can’t be sure. He clumsily sets his feet in a fighting stance, raising his arms as if he intends to punch August, and he’s so unsure. He’s afraid and disoriented and hopelessly confused. August can see this all on his face.

“I didn’t have any choice!” He cries, taking small steps backward from August as he approaches. He’s getting closer and closer to the edge of the cliff. He might’ve forgotten where they are. “He was an apostate! What was I supposed to do?”

“Feed him,” August suggests coolly. This only serves to make the Templar angry and he bares his teeth like he wants to snap.

“He was just some tribal Chasind!” He spits. “We had to ration our damn food as it was! So many circles were being annulled and we had to pick up the slack!”

Before he can really think about it, August casts a spell of horror. It’s stronger than he would usually make it, as the Templar immediately collapses with his fingers scrabbling over his face like he’s trying to claw the visions from his brain himself.

He convulses for a few horribly long seconds. August can’t even tell if the spell has ended or if the Templar has just gone into shock; he was always particularly adept at entropy magic, so much so that Orsino had to curb that part of his education in fear of attracting too much attention from Meredith. He wasn’t hurting anybody, never cast a spell on another person, but Meredith would have accused him of blood magic and had him made Tranquil if she saw him weaving a cloud of spirit magic so heavy it sometimes sucked the energy from anybody stupid enough to get too close to him.

August has never cast horror on himself. He wonders if it conjures personal visions, nightmares tailored to that person, of it’s just vague images and nebulous feelings of fear.

“You starved a young boy to death because of his existence,” August says, adrenaline and anticipation simmering hotly in his stomach. “And then lived while he didn’t. Tell me why you should continue to do so.”

There’s a long silence. For a moment, August wonders if he’s already killed him, and this thought is strangely upsetting, but then the Templar moans and turns his head to catch his eyes. His gaze is dull and accepting. August almost preferred it when he was angry.

“Just do it,” he whispers. August obeys, and kicks him over the cliff.

\--

August returns to the village proper and doesn’t see Cole or Solas right away. They’ve probably returned to camp and will just assume that August needed to buy something in town before they returned to Skyhold.

He finds Varric loitering around the docks, not speaking to anyone, surprisingly; just sitting at the pier and looking pensively across the water.

August sits down next to him, and, because he’s suddenly overtaken by a wave of nostalgia so strong it winds him, rolls up the hem of his leggings and sticks his feet in the water. It’s pleasantly warm, but thick with residue from all the ships.

They sit in companionable silence for a while, something that August finds impossible with most anybody else. Any mindless words he would usually fill silence with are like little chess pieces for Varric; he’s already winning the game, and he doesn’t need August’s paltry attempts at engagement.

Then, just as the afternoon is settling and people are closing their shops in the market, Varric sighs explosively. It’s a defeated sound.

“It didn’t have to be that way, you know,” he says, and his tone allows August too many responses, and not really any at all.

“Yes,” he replies. A seagull croaks loudly, from somewhere August can’t see. “It did.”


End file.
